We Were Rebels Once
by Jocson
Summary: Life as he knew it was bereft of anything for him to fight for. Society, government, the press, and the system; all were against him and his success. He finds that his destiny lies not in fighting for people who had proven themselves unworthy. With unworthiness comes discontent. With discontent comes anarchy. With anarchy, there rises a rebellion. And this was his rebellion.


"What can I get you?"

It seemed odd that he had stood rooted there at his current spot for nearly five minutes without being paid attention, only for someone to finally take notice of him once he had begun turning, intent on leaving the quaint little café along Waterhouse Lane. It wasn't any of the staff's fault at all; although they had been a little overbearing in their attentiveness, he didn't feel that it was a detriment to the aura and overall 'likeability' of the shop. They were excellent at what they did, oftentimes in the rare occasion he could break free from the Dursleys and could eat and drink here, they had never failed him once.

No, the problem today, a problem he couldn't find himself being patient with, was the rude customer the barista had to unfortunately serve and cater to. The loud woman who could have impersonated Mrs. Weasley with a little change here and there in her physique acted more like the rumored overly pompous Narcissa Malfoy, screaming her way into attracting eyes and ears for even the most trivial matters.

His observation, he mused, was spot on as the woman argued; continuously even though he had been called already for his order to be taken. For what, some may ask. Sheepishly, all he could say in reply to such a question would prove to be considered as the most laughable excuse for trying to fight staff members in a café.

Muffins.

Laughing now are you? Anyone at this point should trust him when he says that hearing about such a story and living through it are two very different things. Where one could find amusement and laughter, the other would find annoyance and an over the top lack of patience at having to hear a woman nearly 15 years or more his senior screaming on the top of her lungs, demanding that her favorite flavor of Muffins be baked on her behalf.

She was as spoiled as spoiled women could get.

He had little doubt as to what class she had belonged to: designer clothes made from material that even wizards such as himself would find hard pressed to casually belittle on the account that it had been made by Muggles (not that he was a bigot mind you), extravagant accessories on her wrists, fingers and ears, as well as what appeared to be a pure diamond dangling around her neck. It wasn't huge, like what many gold digging women would ask for, but even at its size, it would fetch for a hefty price. Indeed, from head to toe the screaming banshee of a woman oozed nothing but a message of belonging to the upper class.

A grave mistake for her then, to be walking around Surrey loaded from head to toe with items even he couldn't afford despite the wealth his parents had left him with. Not that he'd attempt to buy any of them; he wasn't vain, nor did he have any love for extravagant items.

A never ending supply of food, Butterbeer, and peace was all he required.

Sadly, in the life of Harry Potter, peace was never an option it seemed.

"Sir?"

He blinked twice in quick succession, a little bit surprised at the sudden question. In front of him stood the barista, a questioning (with a tinge of hopefulness) look on her face. She furrowed her eyebrows when he failed to respond, despite his senses obviously returning to him.

A little bit ashamed from his empty headedness, Harry fumbled around with his hands in his pockets, trying to grasp for whatever paper and coin he could muster from the deep pockets of his pants that were almost filled with nothing.

"Uh, right, tea on the go please." He whispered, just loud enough for the woman to hear, who nodded in acceptance.

He had pulled out the required amount, £1.75 if he had done his math right. The woman spread out the rag tag collection of coins and paper he had handed to her, spreading them out easily on her palm before nodding quickly in satisfaction after a short count.

Already knowing that he'd be served his order once it was done, Harry turned away from the woman, taking a seat on one of the many couches in the quaint little shop. Seeing as how he was a regular, she did not bother to tell him that he'd be served, and instead focused on serving the other men and women behind Harry. The tea he had ordered would all be coming from a teabag anyway, a fact Harry knew and fully accepted. Despite this, he knew looks were as essential to a café-slash-restaurant as its products, so giving him a teabag and a cup of hot water and calling it a day wouldn't do well for business he'd wager.

Thus, he waited for his 'instant' tea. Mrs. Weasley and her husband, Ron, Hermione, hell, even Snape and Malfoy he'd bet, would all sneer at him for ordering tea in a bag. Probably not Hermione, as she was accustomed to Muggle ways of doing things; but all the others most likely would. The only proper tea for a British wizard, is a home-grown, home-made one. Anything else should be called crap and thrown out. He didn't know what it was like for the rest of Britain, but for the magical folks, such was true.

He didn't care though; he rather liked it. It was quick, and easy to do. He'd even drink it without sugar or any other additives if he could. He lived a fast paced life after all: he _didn't_ need any sort of pleasantries to brighten up the fact that his life was, well, his _life._ Dangerous, often times stressful, depressing, and bleak. Such was the description he'd give to the tea he was served with; opaquely green, with a dash of mossy green at the edges. Course, hot, and bland.

Just the way he liked it.

"Thank you." He said to the waiter, who simply smiled at him before living him to his business. Already being a frequent visitor here, almost every single one of the staff knew how he preferred his tea.

Or rather, on what he preferred to drink his tea from.

The to go cup would barely be considered fair considering the amount he had paid for his tea; it was small and barely contained enough tea to sustain someone who loved the beverage very much for the entire day. He was happy with it though, despite it being a cause for negative reviews on the shop by snide little lechers in their ivory towers. The café had garnered a negative reputation, yet still operated as one of the busiest along Waterhouse Lane, a fact Harry was grateful for. No customers, and his favorite shop, the worst he would often admit to himself, and it closed. With customers, and it kept serving Harry their bad beverages and food.

It made him happy. It was a distraction at least to the hustle and bustle of his real life. At least with the shop, with its disgusting food and lackadaisical beverages, made him feel like a normal teenager every now and again.

Unfortunately, despite his hopes of having a normal day as he usually had when it came to matters regarding his quaint little hide away, fate just seemed to want to knock him down on his ass. In his absent minded self-deprecating binge-thinking, he had not been able to mind his surroundings. With the cup of tea in his right hand while the other appendage was halfway down his jean's pocket, Harry bumped rather comically with a person in his path.

Like the old cartoons Harry would often try to sneak glimpses of in the telly, he bounced off the person in his path, nearly throwing his cup of hot tea in the air in the process. Thankfully, whatever deity out there had been doing its job of watching over him, giving him enough strength to quickly react to his almost laughable fall. He had stabilized himself enough to mutter a quiet, short apology to whomever he had bumped with.

"It's quite alright lad."

Familiar. The voice was quite familiar.

"Hang on…Mr. Potter?"

Alarmed that someone had recognized in the unlikeliest of places, his head snapped up quickly to level a suspicious gaze at whoever it was that had uttered his voice.

The site of an old man that greeted his vision was most peculiar indeed. Wearing a wool suit over a blue button up shirt with the most ridiculous red colored bowtie with green polka dots over it that Harry had ever seen, the man whose glasses appeared to be something most people would only see in a movie during the 60's stared with a dumbfounded expression on his face at the teen in front of him. Wiry, but stocky after years of Quidditch and good food in Hogwarts had led Harry to believe that even individuals like Piers Polkins would not be able to notice him.

Granted, he'd have to have not seen Harry for six straight years for such a thing to come true; it unfortunately would not be so, as he remained as one of Harry's torturers on Privet Drive despite his moving to a different educational institution.

"I'm s-sorry? Who're you?" Harry asked, trying to hide the suspicion in his voice lest he trip the potential spy off on the fact that he was on to him.

The man smiled, raising his hands in disbelief as gestured to his body, as if egging him to dig deep into his mind to figure out who he was.

"You don't remember me?" He asked after a few moments of silence.

Curious yet suspicious, Harry shook his head in negative, taking a short swig from the cup of tea in his hand.

"It's me!" The man said aloud, enough to make several heads turn in his direction, before looking away to mind their own businesses. "History Teacher at St. Grogory's?"

' _St. Gro-…Oh!'_

And just like that, memories of the same energetic yet smart teacher began rolling about in Harry's head like a string of film being rolled across in a projector. He was a kindhearted man from his memories, being one of the few adults to ever defend him from the other teachers who had been inclined to believe the fictitious reports his less than pleasant relatives had been feeding them. He was a no nonsense man; he had seen him on more than one occasion chewing other teachers out for their lack of professionalism or compassion when it came to teaching the many students of the primary school.

You could say that, if he had remained blissfully unaware of his magical heritage, this man would have become a personal favorite of his throughout his entire life; a man he'd strive to honor.

"Mr. Andrews?" He half asked, half declared, hoping that he had gotten his name right.

The big smile that grew on the older man's face showed him that he was, indeed, correct in his guess.

"Aye!" The man enthusiastically replied, pleased that one of his former students had remembered him. "Six years! Six years Mr. Potter!" at this, a look of mock anger contorted on his face, as he pointed a timid finger at him. "Where have you been young man?"

Despite his initial suspiciousness, Harry quickly grew at ease, falling into the same sense of security he had when it came to being in the presence of the man before him; the same sense of security he had six years ago. His face split into a wide smile (a rare thing he would show anyone these days), as he replied in equal enthusiasm to the man.

"Oh, well, here and there Mr. Andrews."

The man quieted down a bit, crossing his arms above his chest as he looked down on the shorter Harry.

"You disappeared; I was quite looking forward to having you and Adams draw up another colorful map of England!"

The joke drew a laugh from Harry; he had never been the best at drawing, much less with a partner.

"I've been attending a boarding school in Scotland sir." He said, leaning his body on a pillar as he sensed a long conversation coming.

Hopefully not. He wanted to come back to Privet Drive before the sun fell.

Mr. Andrews nodded in understanding to what he said, a small smile falling on his face as he all but forgot about his original intent on grabbing a quick meal to bring home.

"Ah, those relatives of yours finally doing right by you eh?" he asked, a hint of annoyance grabbing onto the edges of his voice.

Harry shook his head in negative quickly, wanting to quickly dispel any notions of his relatives doing any sort of thing that could be considered as 'good' for him. Almost immediately, Mr. Andrews' smile seemed to falter for a moment, before a calm mask of pleasant neutrality passed onto his face.

"Oh. Well, they're all bollocks anyway; so where you've been studying then?" he asked.

Harry had absolutely no idea what to say at this point; knowing Mr. Andrews, who probably was a product of a boarding school himself, would catch on to his lie once he said 'Hogwarts' and expect the man to draw a blank on the name. He more than likely knew every single boarding school registered in the United Kingdom, if only to keep his options for teaching open once his position as St. Grogory had succumbed to its end, like most careers these days.

Lacking knowledge on any other school out there, Harry decided to just play with what he knew, and hoped, would happen.

"Hogwarts, sir."

Almost immediately, he began to regret his decision of saying the name as Mr. Andrew's face momentarily contorted into confusion; shrugging in defeat after a few (for Harry) tense moments of silence and hard thinking on Mr. Andrew's part.

"I'm afraid I'm not familiar with the name." he said, giving Harry a confused look.

' _I was afraid you wouldn't.'_ Harry thought to himself, shrugging in response to him before plastering on a fake smile.

"It's not widely well known." He began, his grip on his cup of tea getting tighter. "Anyway, what about you Mr. Andrews. Do you still teach at St. Grogory's?"

' _Smooth, Mr. Potter.'_

His old teacher simply smiled and shook his head in negative, pulling out a worn out wallet from his back pocket before grabbing a card from inside. He handed it to Harry, who looked down on it in confusion before the image of his smiling teacher registered in his mind.

"Professor Andrews eh?" he asked amusedly, handing the ID back to the man. "I didn't realize; congratulations sir!"

The man simply waved his congratulations away, a smile still on his face. "Your four years too late for that I'm afraid." He said jokingly, prompting them both to chuckle. "I've been teaching these past few years in King's College in London. History of course." He declared with a proud smile and gleam in his eyes, something Harry just had to respect.

He wouldn't say it aloud, but he was a bit jealous. Here was living proof that one could get by on their own merits, and not based on rumors and pre-established reputation.

He was, indeed, someone Harry wanted to become. A man who made himself; not a man who the world made in their image.

The chiming of the clock on the wall broke him out of his rather depressed musings; he cast his gaze towards it, prompting his eyes to nearly bulge out of its sockets.

6:00 P.M.

The sun was about to go down; he had very little time to make his way back to Number 4 before his loving relatives locked him out. If he was to arrive in time, he had to go now.

Disappointed, he looked at Mr. Andrews in panic, pushing himself off the pillar he had leaned into.

"I'm sorry, but I have to get home before the Dursleys lock me out."

"They do that?" Mr. Andrews asked in worry. He always was the fatherly type of man, caring for all his students, even the dastardly brutish ones.

Still, Harry did not want to cause him any more worry than the state he was currently in, moving towards the exit of the shop. "No no, but they have a flight to catch you see. We had a deal, and I had to get home before 6:30; it's a long walk to get there I'm afraid." He smoothly lied, hoping it would pass with the old man.

Unfortunately, (or fortunately depending on how one looked at it), Mr. Andrews worryingly stepped towards him, hands in his pockets. The chiming of coins and keys was loud and clear from where Harry stood, already knowing what the man was going to offer next.

"I'll drive you home! 4, Pri-"

"Mr. Andrews that's n-"

"-vet Drive yes?"

"-ot necessary."

The elder man simply stated at him incredulously, before shaking his head, rejecting his answer.

"None sense. I'm driving you home! It'd weigh heavily on me should I let you sleep outside your house if I could do something about it!" he declared, moving past Harry without even so much as a glance, expecting him to follow.

Despite his opinion being rejected, and being slightly ashamed to be in the graces of such a good man (he was starting to revere this man a little bit, wasn't he?), he followed. A small part of him was pleased that someone out there at least cared for his well-being.

"Quickly now!" He demanded, quickly unlocking the door on the driver's side of his car (a Ford Fiesta from what he remembered of Dudley's automobile magazines), before unlocking the door to the passenger seat. Harry hurriedly went in, a little bit of the fear he felt from his younger days of being left outside the house for the night beginning to gnaw its way back into his chest.

Without any further arguments, Mr. Andrews drove them to Privet Drive.

The 15-minute-long travel time to the Dursley's home wasn't as excitable as their conversation back in the shop. It was spent mostly in silence, something Harry was grateful for as he was able to concentrate on drinking up his tea. Knowing the Dursleys, anything they see he bought would automatically qualify as being things he bought with money he stole from them. Such things usually led to arguments; something Harry didn't quite need at the moment.

It had gone cold during their conversation back in the shop, which was slightly a shame, though not something he would be sad about anytime soon. Pushing his glasses higher on his nose, he felt slightly guilty about robbing Mr. Andrews of whatever consumable he had come to the café for.

"I'm sorry you weren't able to buy anything back there Mr. Andrews."

The man simply waved him off, shrugging his shoulders in a care free manner.

"It's quite alright. Aye, I did not have a chance of eating the grease off their steaks, and my wife would probably kill me when she learns that I haven't any dinner for her tonight." He said, a smile gracing his lips as they turned the corner. It was nearly 5 houses down now, and Harry could see from where was sitting from that the Dursleys had begun closing off the sprinklers for the garden outside.

He had arrived just in time.

"Thank you so much for driving me back here Mr. Andrews. You didn't have to, but…but thank you." He finished off, letting his appreciation for the man's actions reach his eyes as the car rolled up to a stop just outside the house. He did not immediately get of the car, observing the house as much as he could from this side of the passenger door's window.

It was actually a small house, one that comfortable sheltered four individuals under its roof. But like the carbon copies of it all along Privet Drive, there was nothing grand or special about it, nor was there anything noteworthy for anyone to cast a second glance at it.

For Harry though, the protection it supposedly offered the was the greatest feature the house had; something he greatly despised and thanked at the same time. It had kept him safe all these years from those who would do him harm (although he doubted there was anyone who wanted to hurt him during the long peace time between the First and Second Wizarding War), a fact Harry greatly appreciated. He was alive, at least.

But quickly upon learning of the protections' existence, he grew to hate it with a passion. It was the only reason he was staying in this house, despite his and his relatives' opposite dispositions. He was not a vindictive man (though the same could not be said of the Dursleys), and leaving this home's protection would also leave them without a defense from the now many who wanted to case him harm. He would not rob them that protection; he would extend it to them for however long he needed to.

They _were_ his only living relatives left, despite their less than stellar way of raising him and his never ending hatred for them.

He pulled back on the door's handle, unlocking the door and letting the stale June air into the small vehicle. It thrummed quietly in the background as he stepped off, the slight smell of gasoline pilfering into his nose.

"Harry?" Mr. Andrews called out from within the car.

He looked back through the still open car door, a small smile on his face as he asked what Mr. Andrew needed.

The man smiled back at him, a hand in his pocket as he pulled his wallet out once more.

"Should you need me, for anything at all," he began, before pulling out what seemed to be a calling card of sorts. "Here's my contact details." He said, handing it to him.

Harry simply nodded, turning the card over in his hands to inspect the many different telephone numbers on it.

"And Harry?"

With one last questioning glance at him, Mr. Andrews began jotting something down on a notepad he had picked up from the back seat.

"I nearly forgot; but I'm quite thankful for having bumped into you today." He said, ripping off the piece of paper he had wrote down on from the notepad before handing it to Harry.

 _24_ _th_ _June, 1996: Dans le Noir, London_

"When you disappeared on us," Mr. Andrews began, and Harry picked up on the subtle sadness in his voice, "St. Grogory's was never the same."

It felt like a long time as they simple stayed where they were, staring at each other. Harry could think up of no words. St. Grogory's, no matter how bad it was due to Dudley's bullying, wasn't all that bad with all the good teachers there, as well as all the students who didn't fall in with Dudley and his ilk.

Such thoughts of slightly happier times as compared to his current life made Harry a bit regretful of his decision to jump on the wizard train, both literally and figuratively.

Seeing as he would not be replying, Mr. Andrews put his car into first gear, his eyes on the road in front of him.

"All the other students, those who called _you_ a friend, they disappeared as well. Imagine my and the other teacher's pain when we only had your cousin and his friends to deal with." He finally said jokingly, and all Harry could do was laugh along with his old teacher.

"That there, Harry, in your hands; it's a planned reunion some of your past classmates have organized. Come if you want." He finally said, revving his engine up. "It was nice seeing you again lad."

With this, he began moving forward a little, prompting a wordless Harry to shut the door to the vehicle, stepping back as it moved further and further away from Privet Drive in a slow pace.

He glanced back down at the piece of paper in his hand. He knew what Dans le Noir was; he had seen it on the news. A curious choice for a reunion; curious, but interesting. He ascended the stairs to the front door of the house, and with crossed fingers, he tried to open it, adding a little push into his motion.

Surprisingly, the door opened.


End file.
